X.

"I DON'T KNOW."

How difficult it is for many people to say these words. They don't like to own that they are ignorant of anything. They want to make you think that they know everything. When you ask them a hard question, instead of saying right out, plumply and honestly, "I don't know,"

they will try to trump up some answer that will not expose their ignorance. And oh, what wretched work they sometimes make with their answers. They make perfect fools of themselves.

People never appear well, among those of good sense, who attempt to pa.s.s themselves off as knowing more than they do. It is not to be expected that any one person can know everything; and why should you, or anybody else, be ashamed to own that you can't tell all about this thing, or that thing? Why it is often one part of wisdom to see that you can't understand a particular subject, and another part of wisdom to confess that you can't understand it.

I think that the dog, who figures with a certain vain, self-conceited monkey, in the fable, showed a good deal of wisdom in his remarks.

The monkey, you must know, belonged to a very learned astronomer. The animal often watched his master, while he was looking through his telescope. "There must be something delightful in that," he thought, and one day, when the astronomer was absent, the monkey looked through the instrument for a long time. But he saw nothing strange or wonderful; and so he concluded that his master was a fool, and that the telescope was all nonsense. Not long after that, he met Rover, the family dog, and he told him what he thought of his master. "And what do _you_ think of the matter, friend Rover?" he added.

"I don't know the use of the telescope," said the dog, "and I don't know how wise our master may be. But I am satisfied of two things."

"What are they?" the monkey asked.

"First," said the dog, "that telescopes were not made for monkeys to look through; and second, that monkeys were not made to look through telescopes."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LEARNED GEESE.]

XI.

THE LEARNED GEESE.

A FABLE.

A company of geese used to meet together very often, to talk about the affairs of the nation, and to contrive ways and means to do the public good. They were full of learning; had read all the valuable books that ever were printed in the goose language; and had got the notion into their heads that when they died, wisdom would perish in the earth.

They looked down upon the great ma.s.s of goosehood about them with feelings of pity--almost of contempt. At their public meetings--which were held pretty often, for they had much more public than private business to attend to--they occupied a great share of their time in discussing questions which were so deep and muddy, that n.o.body but they ever saw to the bottom of them. Indeed, many very sensible geese, who made few pretensions to learning, have doubted whether they saw very clearly into these questions themselves. I, too, have my doubts on the subject, as well as these sensible geese; and I go farther than they in my doubts. I doubt whether, in case any learned goose could see to the bottom of very many of these muddy subjects, his knowledge would be worth much to him. I will give you a specimen of some of the questions they used to debate upon, and leave you to judge of their value for yourselves. They were such as these:

"How _thick_ is the shadow of a goose in the moonlight?"

"How much would the shadow of a tolerably learned gander weigh, if it could be weighed?"

"How early do goslings begin to know a great many things, if not more?"

"When a fox starts off after a goose, is it because he loves himself, or because he loves his wife and the little foxes?"

"Whether geese ought not to be willing to die, for the sake of affording a good dinner to Christians on Christmas and Thanksgiving days?"

"Whether there would be such a thing as a good, pious goose, who was not willing to die for such a purpose?"

One day, our learned geese were holding a meeting in the barn yard, according to their custom, and were, if possible, more earnest and noisy than ever in their discussions. This time they were considering what it was best to do to prevent foxes from making such havoc in the neighborhood. The question was submitted, whether it would not be safer and better for geese to sleep with their heads up, instead of placing them under their wings, after the old fashion.

But right in the midst of the debate, while one of the speakers was astonishing himself as well as the rest of the company, with his reasoning and his eloquence, a fox, who had been slily listening to the debate, stepped into their ranks, and seized the orator, cutting short his neck and his speech at the same instant.

MORAL.

There are several things to be learned by this fable. But I shall content myself with simply pointing out one of them, presuming your good sense will discover the rest: _Before you attempt to take care of others, learn to take care of yourselves_.

XII.

THE WRONG WAY.

Edward was rather a rude, headstrong boy. Like a great many young people of his age, he needed to be punished sometimes, and sometimes his parents did deal pretty sternly with him. Edward had a sister, older than himself, by some years. f.a.n.n.y--for this was the name of the girl--tried one day, to tame little Eddy, when, according to her notion, he was inclined to be too wild. f.a.n.n.y was grieved to see her brother act so rudely. They were visiting that day, at Aunt Sally's, and it was natural enough that f.a.n.n.y should wish to have her brother behave as well as he could.

"Eddy," said she, in the hearing of her aunt and some of her cousins, "you act like a young colt."

"Well, what if I do?" said Eddy, rather tartly.

"Why, you will need breaking, if you go on so, that's all."

"And suppose I should need breaking, I'd like to know who'll break me."

"May be I'd try my hand at it, if there's n.o.body else to do it."

"I'd like to see you try it."

"Hush, Edward! I'm ashamed of you."

"You had better hush yourself, if you want me to hush."

At this point in the dispute between the brother and sister, Aunt Sally thought it was best to put a stop to it. She saw that f.a.n.n.y could do no good to Edward, while he was in that mood, and so she said a word or two which turned the thoughts of both the brother and sister into another channel.

I suppose it can hardly be necessary to say to you, that, whatever may have been the right way to manage Edward, that which his sister tried at this time was certainly the wrong.

XIII.

THE RIGHT WAY.

Edward still behaved rather rudely--still "acted like a young colt."